Nothing Needed To Be Said
by LionHeart00
Summary: One-shot (could expand). When your significant other's life may be in danger, would you knock on your arch enemies' door? Even the most notorious villain knows when to put rivalries aside and seek help from the heroes. OCxJim.


Hello! This is just a quick one-shot I had in my mind. Though, I am thinking about writing a bit more... Possibly a whole story based around the relationship between my OC and Jim either from the very beginning or somewhere else. I know that Jim is pretty OOC with my OC, but that is because I am deciding exactly how Jim would react around/to her without having (almost) anything to base it on. Also, because of the intensity of their relationship (which I would explain and expand in a separate story... possibly) he seems very out of character. If you don't like it, you don't have to read it :) But please, please, if you think that expanding the story is a good idea or you would like to see that happen, message me or review telling me that its a good idea! I would really appreciate it, as it would tell me if anyone would read it if I decided to expand the story. Alright, enjoy the story! Please favorite and/or review!

(sorry for any grammatical errors, I typed this on my phone)

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 ** _London, England_ \- 9:10 p.m.**

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He was panicking.

Really, really panicking.

The kind of panicking you get when the worst possible thing has happened to you; a thing so drastic and unimaginable, that you feel as if you are in a dream.

Alas, he was very much awake, and he loathed that fact. As he carried a petite young woman in his arms, he wished he would just wake up. He wished he could open his eyes and instead of him carrying her through the rain, he would be holding her in his bed. Instead of his hands covered in her blood, they would be playing with her short auburn hair.

He could see her face growing pale, and her skin was feeling very cold. It wasn't enough to assume she was dead, but enough to increase his pace as much as he could without dropping her. He dreaded the idea of accidentally dropping her. He never wanted to let go of her, even after she would recover. He would never again let his mind become distracted while on the streets of London with her.

He had thought they were safe.

He could feel his skin _burning_ with anger. It was boiling, almost to an uncomfortable point, even in the freezing rain. He was angry at the cretin who did this; he was angry at himself for letting this happen; he was angry at the fact that he could loose her tonight.

' _No_ ,' he thought, ' _I won't let that happen_.'

He kept repeating this to himself in his mind: Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes to save the girl in his arms.

Even if "whatever it takes" means knocking on your arch enemy's door and asking his flatmate to help stitch up the person he holds most dear.

He wouldn't dare take her to a public hospital, that would only get her separated from him. No... He needed someplace close by, secret and secure. There _was_ such a place, although he didn't like the idea of it. But for her he didn't care. As long as she survived.

As he neared a small sandwich shop, he looked at the flesh wound in the girl's outer-right shoulder, which was producing a steady amount of blood-flow. He assumed the bullet had been meant for her heart, as she had jerked to the left suddenly, straight into his side, before getting hit. He knew she had seen the sniper, and had tried to move out of the way of his shot but was not quick enough. Maybe if he had seen the sniper first, and pulled her out of the way, or even stepped in front of her-

' _No matter how infuriated you are, r_ _eplaying the events in your head won't change them_ ,' he reminded himself. ' _Just_ save her, _then worry about what happened_.'

He stepped up to a dark wood door, the address number 221 painted in gold above a metal knocker. He re-positioned the girl in his arms, careful to keep her shoulder lifted up, and tried to open the door. Strangely, it was locked, even though the occupants usually locked the front door an hour from then. Fuming at this inconvenience, he thrashed his fist against the door over and over again until he heard the scurrying of feet and a high voice muttering about "what hour it was". An elderly woman opened the door, gasped audibly, and stepped quickly out of the way as the man instantly hurried through the door.

"Oh my! Sir, let me call an ambulance!" The woman called after the man, who had already began taking the stairs two steps at a time. The man didn't want to waste much of his breath on the woman, and so he simply shouted forcefully.

" _DON'T_."

He neared a door marked 'B', and his stomach sprung with anxiety, now worrying whether or not the girl in his arms would make it. Without grace or warning to the occupants inside, he quickly used his left hand (which was still wrapped under the girl's legs) to turn the door's knob, and used his foot to push open the door. He stepped inside the threshold, quickly taking in the scene in front of him.

There were two men currently sitting in different chairs opposite of one another. One, tall and dark-haired, who had been sprawled out on a black leather chair, was now sitting up straight, a look of horror, shock, and surprise in his usually expressionless sharp features. The other man, older looking and blond, sitting in a more comfortable, home-y reclining chair, was stiff, and looked at the man in the doorway with fear, surprise, and defense. The man in the threshold only allowed a short moment of silence to go by for the men to register that he was there, before moving quickly to the couch beyond the two chairs and next to the wall. He shook very slightly as he laid the young woman on the couch, his eyes fervently looking at her wound, face, arms, and hands. He kneeled next to her head, clutched one of her hands, and turned to the shorter, older one of the two men.

"I know you must be _shaking_ in your jumper at my unexpected appearance, but I advise you to do everything in your power to help this woman." The kneeling man stroked her hair. "Because if her life ends..." A crazed, malicious smile sprung across his face, "so will yours." The man spoke with less grace and more anger, letting his crazed stare bore into the blond man. Said man opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if fighting an internal war. He then looked at the young woman on the couch, seeing her wound and instantly changing his demeanor. A switch seemed to go off in him, and he stood up quickly moving to another room.

"I'm getting the equipment. Sherlock, get a towel and press it against the wound!" He shouted from an open door. Sherlock seemed to hesitate, and looked at the kneeling figure beside his couch. He was almost startled to find the man gently clutching the young woman's hand, his forehead resting against the side of hers. He was mumbling something into the young woman's ear, and he could see her eyes darting across the ceiling, obviously trying to keep herself awake. Sherlock had never expected to see this man in this position, and there was a part of him that wanted to take advantage of the situation. But a voice from the other room shook away those thoughts.

" _NOW_!" Sherlock reacted to his flatmate and dear friend's voice, leaping over his chair and moving quickly yet calmly to the bathroom, grabbing a towel and moving back to the sitting room. He maneuvered himself to stand next to the kneeling man, warily glancing at him before kneeling beside him (yet still a few inches away). He pressed the towel to the girl's wound, which caused her to hiss loudly. The kneeling man's head shot up, an animalistic ferocity overtaking his expression and dark eyes.

" _Don't hurt her,_ " he hissed, turning his stare to Sherlock. He felt a squeeze coming from the girl's hand, and he quickly calmed himself, turning his softened gaze to the girl. She was looking at him, breathing heavily, and gave him the tiniest of nods to let him know it was okay. He lightly squeezed her hand back, also returning her small nod.

It seemed like several minutes, when in reality it was only a few moments, before the blond man strode back into the room, carrying a glass of water, a bottle of water, and a red box in his hands. He moved towards the two men, stopping next to Sherlock.

"I'm going to need you to relocate," he said. Although the words may have been humorous, the blond man spoke with such seriousness that Sherlock immediately stood and backed away. The blond man kneeled in Sherlock's place, although he did not partake in the petty act of keeping a certain distance from the kneeling man beside him. He was a doctor, this was his job, and someone was seriously injured right in front of him. There was no time for nonsense.

He assessed the wound quickly, noting that it was a bullet flesh wound at the edge of her shoulder, which meant, judging by the area, there should be no broken bones, no punctured arteries, and no internal bleeding. Me murmured "thank goodness" to himself, though caught the girl giving a small smirk. The blond man wondered at the back of his mind if the location of the wound had somehow been planned. Pushing away his thoughts for later, he resumed his analysis of the wound.

The blond man quietly sighed in relief to find that Sherlock had been sufficient in applying pressure to the wound, as there was not as much blood-flow as he had seen before. He moved the now half-bloodied towel to the side, and took out a small flashlight, shining it quickly in both of the girl's eyes, making sure she was still responding normally. She was, so he began to talk to her.

"Alright, try to stay awake, even though this might hurt. We're not in my workspace so this might be _slightly_ unorthodox, uh..." He quieted, pausing momentarily to glance at the man beside him before pulling out a few tools, waiting for the man to tell him the girl's name.

"Alice." The way the kneeling man spoke her name almost stopped John in his work, and caused Sherlock's interest to triple. There had been zero anger, zero sarcasm, zero anything except calmness and softness in the mans voice as he spoke the woman's name.

"Right, Alice," John said, causing the young woman to cast her eyes on him, not turning her head. "My name in John. If you feel confused, dizzy, anything hindering you from staying awake and alert, let me know." He made sure he saw her acknowledge him (she did so with a small nod) before continuing his work.

He grabbed some tools and began working, taking a small pair of scissors and cutting the girl's blood-stained dress around the wound, gently pulling away some fabric that had stuck to her skin. He cleaned gently around her wound as much and as quickly as he could.

The kneeling man beside him resumed resting his forehead against the side of Alice's head, murmuring into her ear. It seemed to be keeping her alert and awake, as John could see her eyes wide and responsive, and her pouty lips occasionally smiling or smirking lightly.

John brought the half-bloodied towel to the glass of water, dipping a significant amount of one of the tips in the liquid. He then tucked one side of the towel under Alice's arm, under the back of the flesh wound, and began squeezing the tip of the towel over the top of the wound. He did this for about 30 seconds, having to re-dip the tip of the towel into the water a couple of times. He then gently pulled out the towel from under Alice's arm, seeing only bloodied water soaking into the towel. From this he knew that the inside of the wound was at least semi-clean.

John weighed his options: he could either stitch up both side of the wound, or bandage them thoroughly so Alice could be taken to a hospital as soon as possible.

"Alright, we have two options," he spoke to Alice. "I can stitch up this wound for you right now, or I can bandage it so you can go to a hospi-"

"Stitch it up," the kneeling man spoke quickly. John was quiet for a moment, not wanting to provoke the man.

"But at a hospital she could-"

"She will be taken away from me." The man spoke so softly yet so forcefully that John could not reply. He instead looked to Alice, raising his brows subtly to ask if this was okay. She gave a small nod.

"Stitch me up," she spoke determinedly to John, turning and giving a small reassuring smile to the kneeling man. He responded by closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the side of her head and breathing deeply.

John quickly set to work, pulling out a medical needle and threat. He began sterilizing his tools and the wound quickly and thoroughly. He threaded the needle and began stitching, starting from the edge of the wound closest to him. He sewed in diagonal stitched, and made sure to push the needle in far enough so that the skin would not tear. Alice seemed to handle the pain, if there was any. She did occasionally let out a tiny squeak of discomfort, and every time the kneeling man seemed to wince with her.

Sherlock watched from behind, calculating the possibilities of the situation in front of him. The girl was obviously a significant other. The relationship had to have started no less than three years ago, given the level of attachment each person seemed to have for one another. The woman, Alice, must have been in close contact with the kneeling man for longer than three years, given the fact she seemed unfazed by his reaction to and from himself and his flatmate. This suggests she knows the kneeling man, not just the surface of the person, but the devil inside as well. Sherlock marveled at the idea of any woman truly loving and being truly loved by the danger that was Jim Moriarty.

.o.0.o.

Alice stared at the worn ceiling above her. She had already counted the small cracks along the sides of the wall about 29 times, already watched the dust float through the air in the dim lighting, and had already stirred her unreasonable anxiety about dying more than she could count.

There was nothing she could worry about, though. Yes, she did loose a significant amount of blood, but definitely not enough to make her worry about her own life.

The thing is, that _wasn't_ what she was worried about. She had been replaying the scene of her getting injured over and over in her head (which she knew was not good), and she couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she had suffered a more... Critical injury. If she had, there would be no one to blame but herself.

Once she had spotted the sniper, in a matter of seconds she had made the immediate decision to stop the bullet from meeting its original target, which hadn't been her. She had thought that the bullet would graze her if she pushed to the left hard enough, but it hadn't. Though it's not what she had planned to happen, receiving a bullet flesh wound at the edge of her shoulder was much more fortunate than actually getting shot in the shoulder. With the amount of delicate bones and major arteries, it would have easily seriously injured her if not killed her. She breathed in a shaky breath at the thought of being close to getting critically injured.

She couldn't have died, she just couldn't have. It wasn't a matter of it not being her time, it was a matter of fact. There was no possible way that she could have died that night, _especially_ in front of the man kneeling beside her. _Her Jim_. He was currently leaning his head in the crook of her neck, his torso leaning against the side of the couch, and his breathing slowing from exhaustion.

Though the thought of her almost dying would cause her terrible anxiety, the thought of her not acting instantly and taking the bullet would cause her to have a heart attack. Alice didn't - in fact, she _couldn't_ \- imagine what would happen if the sniper's actual target had been hit...

She would have rampaged.

Looking over at the top of Jim's head brought her away from those terrible thoughts. It brought her back to reality, where her Jim was perfectly fine, besides being exhausted physically and probably mentally.

He had been putting every ounce of energy he had into worrying about her for the past several hours, that even _he_ couldn't take it anymore. But it was no matter; the sound of his slow breathing actually calmed Alice. It took her mind off the dull pain of the wound at the edge of her right shoulder, which had been unorthodoxly yet well patched up by the short blond man, who she knew to be John H. Watson.

Even when she had been almost passed out, and taken unexpectedly to this flat, she instantly knew who it was occupied by even before entering. If she hadn't known when she entered the room, she had definitely known from the blatant and penetrating gaze from Sherlock Holmes. As she was not ignorant, she knew exactly why he was so interested in her. But to be honest, she didn't give the matter much care as the man she loved had whispered desperate promises and hopes of her getting through alright.

Although there was nothing more comforting and inspiring than her significant other helping her through this unsuspected obstacle, she _had_ wished Jim hadn't spat at the idea of her removing her blood-soaked dress. As much as she understood his uncomfortableness with having his love stripped in front of his arch enemy, she still thought it illogical to put rivalries before reason.

Speaking of her love, Jim began to stir beside her. He lifted his head, his big eyes immediately searching for her own. When they made contact he smiled. Really, really smiled. Alice's heart warmed generously at the sight, and smiled back.

"Hello," he said, and although the word was simple, his voice and expression held all his emotions. He was utterly relieved. He was calmed down, more peaceful, knowing his Alice would be just fine.

"Hello," she replied, glancing at his posture. "Have you been holding yourself on your knees the whole night?" She asked, a hint of concern in her voice. He raised a brow in slight confusion.

"Yes, why?"

"You should sit down properly, your legs must be fast asleep by now," Alice said. The man blinked for a few moments, then finally smirked lightly.

"Darling, you've nearly been shot, and your worried about my legs falling asleep?" He questioned teasingly. Alice rolled her eyes, then smirked as he grunted while repositioning himself to sit on the floor.

"But was I right?" He nodded his head, jokingly acting sheepish.

"You were right."

"I always am," Alice teased. She saw his big eyes shine with a mix of love and pride, with barely a hint of insanity or anger, a look he saves for her and only her.

"You always are."

The couple took this moment to just be together, quietly and contently. Jim and Alice's hands were intertwined, and they both alternated between looking at each other and looking at their hands. Nothing needed to be said.

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Again, I hope you liked the story! If you think I should expand this story or write a story based on my OC and Jim's relationship from the beginning, message me or review telling me to do so! Thank you so much!

Favorite and/or review!


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